don't you feel anymore?
by blue-starryeyed-songjay
Summary: but feelings were dangerous and complicated and Quinn doesn't need it. there's a reason she's so calm when looking at the blood trickling down her arm. oneshot, triggering, really quite angsty.


**This deals with angsty things I have never dared venture to. Ah. Yeah. Erm. I can't really…think of anything else I should mention at the moment. Triggering, maybe. I wouldn't read it if you think you could get triggered.**

**Disclaimer: I own nada.**

* * *

><p>'Don't you feel anymore?' Finn asked, his voice growing louder and angrier. Quinn turned to Finn, barely holding back the tears threatening to pool over.<p>

She hardly noticed Finn leaving the car. Burying her head inside her arms, the tears found their way down her face, leaving silver trails.

Of course she felt. Emotions were part of her daily life. Emotions were the main thing she thought about when clinically observing the blood trickling down her arms.

* * *

><p>So she dyes her hair pink, starts smoking. Kurt and Blaine come over several times, trying to persuade her to stop smoking- Kurt strangely approves of the pink hair, saying it edges her out. Santana's frequently texted her in Spanish, making her feelings over the pink hair, Lady Gaga inspired sunglasses and smoking clear- the latter was <em>'no me gusta'. <em>But she ignores them- no one would care if she died anyway. People didn't even know she could _feel. _

Quinn wasn't a person, if a person was supposed to have feelings. But if so, how could she feel the _pain?_

* * *

><p>She felt judging glares, the harsh prickle of cruel, whispered words, the giggle of the new cheerleader staring at the girl. She felt the slicing pain, the dull aftermath and the damp path of her blood. But, of course, no-one noticed. Quinn was smart, despite stereotypes saying otherwise. She knew what outfits she would have to wear. Short sleeved shirts, long skirts, leather boots, maybe even a collar.<p>

So the edge of the scissors used to cut her hair cuts the top of her thighs instead, slowly biting down. Quinn's face remains impassive throughout, reminding herself of one thing; feelings are when it gets dangerous.

The Skanks welcome her as warmly as they can, nodding in approval at Quinn's readiness to take a cigarette. They turn away, rolling pipes of tobacco, and Quinn hastily takes the cigarette out of her mouth. No-one notices the dimly lit cigarette. It's almost as if no-one notices Quinn.

* * *

><p>Each cut is like a scream, a pleading cry for help. The blood that trickles out is like a stream of tears. It's easier to throw up all her food each day.<p>

Quinn's tired. She's shut the world off, ignoring all the sympathetic looks. She receives them daily from her mother.

* * *

><p>It becomes a daily routine.<p>

She'll wake up, dress herself, decline her mother's attempt to make her eat, then walk to school, placing a cigarette between her mouth. She never lights it. Flaunting with death is what she does daily.

Sue offers her the chance to call Mr Schue out on the bad things that've happened in her life, and she nearly says no. But she remembers the foul aftertaste of vomit, the drops of blood staining her white bedsheets, the pain of losing her baby and she agrees.

* * *

><p><em>'So now you're a train wreck. Congratulations.'<em>

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She's had to think about her angry, supposedly on the spot speech towards the ridiculous teacher, carefully avoiding the slightest hint towards self-harm and bulimia. Instead, the cruel slap of words are thrown in her face, taunting her, each sarcasm coated word causing an invisible cut. Sue leaves Quinn in the hallway, words echoing in her ears. She shakes her head.

That night, she adds five more scratches, instead of the usual three.

* * *

><p>Beth.<p>

The name rolled around her mouth. She's successfully not thought about her child for one year, one glorious, practically uneventful year.

Shelby has to go along and mess it all up, bringing Beth with her.

Quinn's told to change. She's told that dyeing her hair pink didn't mask who she was. They tell her that _they _know who the real Quinn is. Quinn doesn't know. How do they know?

But she goes along with it, all to try to see her baby. She agrees, removing the pink dye, washing off the fake tattoo of whoever it was on her lower back, leaving the Skanks with a cutting remark.

'Who cares, Fabray? You're still a Skank. You've just changed physically.'

Quinn leaves without looking back. She would hate to agree with them.

* * *

><p>Beth's beautiful.<p>

She's the only source of light in her life. A few nights ago, Quinn didn't cut, or throw up. She ate a little bit of dinner. All because of her _child. _The one thing in her life she hasn't messed up in anyway.

So when Puck admits to her that he's slept with Shelby, that he might even _love_her, she goes home and cries.

He may have tried to fix her, but he took her mended heart and stamped on it, shattering it into unfixable pieces.

* * *

><p>She thinks of Beth and the scissors cut down sharply.<p>

Blood goes everywhere. Quinn gasps. It's deeper than intended, the blood leaving her body at a quick pace. Sobs ripple through her body, her blonde hair falling in her face. Blood-stained hands reach up to wipe each strand away gently.

Later that day, she bandages her leg tightly, blaming her new limp on a knee injury from dance practise. No-one questions her. Why should they?

It's not as if she could feel.

* * *

><p>She's not going to sit around and allow Rachel Barbra Berry marry Finn. She's more than that. He's more than that.<p>

They both deserve different people.

Quinn isn't naive. She knows Rachel would slam her down, ignore her, perhaps kiss another boy she loved. But at least she tried.

Maybe it would make up for the times she had ignored Rachel in her hour of need.

* * *

><p>The car slams into her.<p>

She doesn't notice. She only feels the familiar blood dripping down her face, the scream of her broken bones, the dull pain of re-opened cuts.

_Don't you feel anymore?_

Yes, she wants to scream. Yes.

* * *

><p><strong>If you have any questions on self-harm, contact Sarahforaworldunderserving or _sarah__foraworldundeserving_ on tumblr. She's more knowledgable about this than I am. Please be careful. 3 Any questions, I'll PM you. **


End file.
